


charm school

by riverbed



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: F/M, Face-Sitting, Femdom, Gags, Infidelity, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pegging, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6369874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>alex needs to learn to be nice.</p><p>luckily, maria is an expert in being nice, a professional. and she's damn good at her job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	charm school

**Author's Note:**

> greetings.  
> tired of women characters being so passive, as always, i naturally had a wish to see maria active.  
> note on the infidelity tag: pretty sure eliza's in on this.
> 
> warnings: modern au, velvet-upholstered Victorian furniture, messy saliva, puppy-dog eyes, mention of undernegotiation, summer minidress worship, being sent home from class early
> 
> this is pwp with a little bit of wishful/hopeful thinking. have fun.

“If you’re going to be naughty then you can go home.” Maria pulls the length of silken rope in her hand and Alexander falls forward onto the hardwood, whining as his cheek hits the floor. “You make far too much noise, Alexander. No wonder your wife gets tired of you.” Her voice is deadpan, not fond at all. Absolutely displeased. He knows she’s right.

It’s harder to breathe around the gag like this, face pressed to the ground. He feels spit on his own lip and tries to suck it back in but it gets on his chin. He’s ashamed at how hard he is, still in his slacks but bound and helpless. Maria had admonished him for being late but without much ado had ushered him into her living room - her _parlor_ \- and promptly bound him, lacing him up on his knees, so little range of movement. She’d said he needed a time out, and as usual, was correct - the day had been high-stress, impossible. He’d shown up on her doorstep a little breathless, shoulders working. Twitchy. She wants him still. He tries to keep himself still.

He can’t. The position is wildly uncomfortable and his biceps, forced behind him, are starting to burn. All his weight is on his face. He huffs and whines again, and he hears her rise from her chair.

She yanks him up by the hair; he fights her all the way, burn in his scalp driving instinct. “Impatient, aren’t you, lamb?” she asks, running two fingers down his likely-bruised cheek. “You want me to get started on you, you gotta ask nicely. Then you gotta be quiet.”

He nods. She unbuckles the back of the gag, his face against the softness of her dress. She removes the ball from his mouth, and more saliva falls from his mouth as she does. He wants to hide his face - he’s already a mess. But she still has a hand firmly in his hair.

“Please,” he says, closing his eyes as he does so.

She tsks. “I’ve heard you do better than that. Get desparate for me, Alexander. Like when you think I’m going to let you come, you know? You get so pretty and needy for me when you think I’m gonna let you come.” She brushes his hair back from his forehead as a soothe. “Tell me what you think you deserve.”

He starts again. “Please, Maria -” 

“Oh. And look at me when you’re speaking to me.”

He opens his eyes, stares up at her. She is a vision, dark hair cut blunt and loose around her shoulders. He sees only light, a beacon. “Please, help me, Maria. You know what I came here for, you know I need it.”

Maria looks down at him, considers. There’s nothing in her expression at all. It burns him to know he affects her so little; he wants to take her apart like she does to him. He is not used to people being resistant to his charm. He supposes that’s why he keeps coming back.

She drops his face from her hand, comes around back of him, starts undoing the ropes. “I think that’s part of what you need,” she says. The heavy rope drops from his body in sections, thumps to the gleaming hardwood ringing in his ears. He remembers his joints being tense with stress and anticipation but he finds as he’s released and works them they loosen. Maria kneels behind him and runs her hands down his back, his calves. The muscles jump under her touch.

“Long day, Alexander?” He gulps, nods. Somehow he doesn’t think she’s looking for a verbal answer. His khakis feel tight on his thighs, his groin. He flexes his wrists just to feel his blood flowing.

*

She tilts him over the vanity, dark cherry wood that matches the frame of the Victorian settee. The desktop is expansive enough that he’s six or so inches away from the mirror; he can see himself, his large eyes, his mussed hair. His cheeks flush as she steps up behind him, her own eyes boring into his; the off-white, gauzey material of her dress skims the bare skin of his thigh and he sighs, shuts his eyes.

He can’t see her lower body but he knows she’s wearing it, can feel the fine leather straps and metal rings over the cotton of her dress, her skin beneath the layers, the warmth he craves. The dildo she’d chosen is silky and especially firm, pressing against his perineum. He shivers under it, flexing his fingers where they’re splayed next to his shoulders.

She lifts him by the hair again. Fits the gag back in his mouth. He stares at himself as his jaw goes wide around it. “You take direction much better like this,” she explains, pressing him back down to the table. “Plus, I much prefer when you don’t talk back.” She starts exploring his body with her hands, dragging the pads of her fingertips down the sides of his hips, dancing her nails light across the small of his back. Then she drags her nails up his spine, pushes his too-long hair out of the way, leans down over him to kiss at his neck. He yelps in surprise, the dildo pushing against his opening when she shifts, panic setting in at the lack of preparation. “Don’t worry, Alex,” she says against his nape. “This isn’t about you, remember? I’ll teach you how to be gentle, how to please.” She nips just under his ear. He shakes. “You gotta learn how to be nice.”

He nods in the mirror. Maria hums, continuing to run her hands over his skin. “This is nice,” she says, almost like it’s just an observation at first, not a lesson. “This is what’s nice. Softness. Foreplay. Why is it that men never learn that word?” She digs the heels of her palms into the muscles between his shoulder blades. He moans and his eyes close again. He loses himself in the assault on his sore back, the idea of her deceptively small hands being so full of strength. By the time she’s loosened his shoulders up, he’s groaning, sinking into the smallest touch for more, wishing she’d draw it out forever.

She doesn’t. As always, she plays his body just enough, turning her attention to his sides, his slight waist. She tsks. “You’re so thin, Alexander. I know there’s power here,” and she lays her hand full on the small of his back, “but you need to eat better. Gotta take care of yourself to take care of your woman.” She flourishes her hand, swirling it down to his flank. “My, you are beautiful, though.” It’s pure admiration in her voice, and he swells with pride. “I love you like this, quiet, undemanding. So pretty.” He keens as she pets his hair, but then she steps away, and he fights the urge to stand, turn, search the room. There’s always a momentary panic in him at sudden loss of contact, and luckily she’s picked up on it, knows he doesn’t like it. She comes back just a few seconds later and drops a couple of items on the table next to him. He doesn’t look.

Her hand is heavenly slick when it wraps around his cock. He stirs, trying hard to press his tongue up and make a grateful noise, but it comes out a frustrated groan around the gag and his breathing gets restricted, so he focuses on it, tries to ratchet down the effect the way she’s pulling him root to tip is having on his lungs. And just as suddenly as it started it’s over, and she’s slipping a tight silicone ring down his shaft to grip around the base, and then another’s around his balls, and she says, “So you can focus.”

He wants to learn. This is more than a game; he wants to please Eliza, wants to make her happy. Wants to find a meaningful apology for all the times he’s fucked up, all his dangerous, illicit, negligent, reckless activities; fights, ill-advised press attacks, affairs with journalists justified as meant to glean information. They’d all gone on too long, gotten too close. She knows he’s not shit and he appreciates her for that but she has yet to rein him in; he feels terribly guilty when he considers how that might be acceptance of defeat.

He’d started coming to Maria because she’d promised him a way back, something tangible to symbolize the healing of their relationship. He’d met her through a friend; she promised him discretion and experience, and she’d had references, men and women with power, with home lives he knew to be as complicated as his own, with massive things to lose and who had never been outed or ruined. He trusts Maria implicitly but he doesn’t love her. That’s an important distinction, the difference between being able and unable to step out of himself. He needs practice, the opportunity to hone his imperfections till they’re worthy of Eliza.

Now they’re here, Hamilton pinned against a desk in her ornately decorated front room, her soft hips against his sharp ones. She steps back and runs her fingers up the backs of his thighs, over the curve of his ass; he shivers. She dips a wet finger into his cleft, against his rarely-used hole, just into him as he finds his voice and moans. When she gets to the second knuckle she adds another slender digit, praising as she goes. “Good, good, Alexander, you open so beautifully for me. Just like that, sweetheart. See, this is how you pay attention. See what a little attention does?” Alexander’s panting behind his gag, breath coming in little whines around it as he tries to pay attention.

Maria adds a third finger, and even as slim as they are it’s more of a stretch than is entirely comfortable, and he squirms, screws his eyes shut until he feels her whack him on the shoulder. “Pay attention,” she says sharply. “I’m trying to teach you something valuable.” He looks up, stares at her through the mirror. And then there’s that sensation he suddenly realizes he’s been waiting for, that spot he’s sure she’s been searching out. He rears back, arching into it in shock - he always forgets that feeling, the sheer overwhelming power of such a touch. “This is how women feel when you play nice,” Maria says, crashing him violently back to earth. He whines in answer and Maria snickers. “Look at you, babe. Too much?” She presses hard into his prostate and keeps the pressure there. His eyes go wide and well up with tears - it _is_ too much, he’s suddenly so aware of his arousal, curling terribly in his gut, needy and she won’t let up, presses so perfectly against him, grinning ferally in the mirror -

And then she pulls back, pulls out, leaving him all at once empty and pining. He’s trying to remind his vying body that grinding against the surface in front of him will bring no relief but it’s not working, not fully - his hips are working despite himself, pistoning against thin air, the restriction on his cock too torturous, too exquisite to resist. Maria’s still humming calmly, spreading him open and pressing on the small of his back, and then she’s pressing the hard length of the toy back against him, letting him feel the tip of it slip up into him a couple times before pressing forward with more of it, pulling all the way out each time she gets another inch in him, really letting him feel it. Given that he hasn’t seen it, he’s relieved that it seems not to be particularly huge - he’s seen porn of that stuff and it scares the shit out of him. This is enough of a challenge, lube slicking him down but still able to feel how thick it is filling him. He’s open but tight and thankful for it, the tinge of roughness thrown into the ascendant pleasure, that extra layer of sensation. She’s got her hips pistoning fast against him, smooth leather and cool steel pressing against his hot skin, and she works them perfectly controlled, precise.

“There you go, baby. Yeah. Relax.” She’s got two fingers tracing down each notch on his spine. “Keep it open for me. Isn’t very fun, is it? Just lying there being taken. There’s nothing to this, see?” She rocks her hips a couple more times for emphasis. He thinks she is perfectly wrong - this is more than fun, there’s more to this than he could verbally communicate even if it weren’t currently happening to him. Each of these particularly slow thrusts ram directly into his prostate.

His lungs stop when she reaches around him to rub her palm against the head of his dick, and he gasps trying to catch up with his breath. If she was trying to prove a point, she’s proven it. “Gotta pay attention to her clit, too,” she says as if he’s completely stupid. Rather than enrage him, it only makes him want to prove he’s not. He whines and feels spit run down his cheek, rolls his head to the other side on the table.

She drags it out of him before she stops playing with his cock, and he’s ashamed by how badly he wishes that toy were back in his ass. He tries to squirm away from her touch but she’s got him pinned with her weight draped over his back. It’s too much and he wants more and he can’t say it, and it actually hurts, the ache in his groin is so acute. He wants to beg. He can’t. All he can do is keep taking it. It’s out of his hands. The worst is how far he knows it is from being over.

Maria is pulling him back now, and pushing him onto the floor. He cooperates best he can, but his loose body falls pretty gracelessly to the ground. She doesn’t seem to mind; she kneels and follows him, throwing a leg over to straddle his chest. The strap-on is still on and he licks his lips at the sight of it, over her thin dress, that heavy, whips-and-chains type of shit in contrast to the classical femininity of the Coke-bottle curve of her hips to her waist to her breasts. His breath hitches again as he registers the fact that the dildo was just inside him - there’s something depersonalizing but highly intimate about that, the knowledge that it was just used to ream him so dazed and stupid.

He stares up at her, and she stares back down, all shit-eating grin and amber eyes aflame. She’s... pleased, and even though Alexander knows it’s with herself, he feels the pride well up within him. He asks her with his eyes, trying to make them wide, open. An invitation.

She takes him up on it, manhandling his head to unbuckle the strap of the gag. As she pulls it away his saliva goes with it, spit breaking to fall back on his own face and he feels gross, debauched, used, and revels in it. She fondly rubs some of his spit into his cheek with her thumb. It’s still wet with lube, and he works his jaw, trying to restore feeling to the hinge.

“Ready to show me what you’ve learned, Alexander?” she asks brightly, scooting up a bit. The cotton of her dress feels exceedingly rough against his chest. He nods slowly, pushing his tongue into his cheek. These are the times he does crave emotional intimacy, the ability to kiss and the implicit permission to touch. He wants to earn it back, the feeling that he is welcome in his own bed, welcome in his wife’s arms, and he knows he has work to do to get there.

Maria is generous with her counsel. She pushes his boundaries, so gently that he doesn’t realize it’s happening, always finding new ones, new limits, new things he’s capable of. He has never been one to back down but these past few years have taught him the meaning of defeat, and there have been times he’s considered if he’s not cut out for the public eye, not cut out for his marriage. But she’s taught him how to listen more effectively than he’s ever known. She’s taught him how to break new ground. She’s taught him methods he’s used to get on Eliza’s good side when he’s really needed it, and sometimes it feels a bit manipulative, but when she looks at him sated, the happiest, calmest he’s seen her since they first got married, he convinces himself his discomfort is just toward the continuing change, the idea that his relationship might actually have hope of being healthy. He supposes he’s gotten so used to the rift between them that any shift in that dynamic throws him off.

She shifts again, loosening the straps of the harness to slip the dildo out from it. She tosses it aside but leaves the harness on, adjusting her position to kneel over his face. He holds her gaze from between her thighs, looking up, feeling vulnerable. She’s wearing her panties, and her scent is his whole world, and he keeps playing with his tongue, licking his lips in anticipation.

“Show me what you want, Alexander.” She’s laying it out for him, the terms he must step to. She opens her legs a little further, drops down a bit. He lifts his head to lick at her through her panties, still staring at her, a question. “You think a woman gets off on that weak shit?” She says, sinking down a little more. “Give it to me, you nasty thing. Show me why you’re worth my time.” And she’s rocking forward, pinning his wrists above his head, fitting her crotch onto his face. He adjusts, breathes her in, bites carefully down on the fabric of her underwear and nudges them to the side with his nose.

She’s wet as soon as he dips his tongue past her lips and he delves further to seek it out. Hears her sigh. Feels the rush of her taste, sharp, heady, so different from Eliza, who’s sweeter. He presses the flat of his tongue against her clit and works the muscle against her, pressure he hopes feels wonderful. He has barely any indication what she thinks of it, small, bored noises as she adjusts her position to be more to her liking but little else by way of either encouragement or displeasure. She simply keeps him working indefinitely, and he locks in on the task, trying to ignore his still-hard cock straining for contact with nothing but air.

Finally he seems to find a rhythm that’s really working, because she yelps, then hums, and then she grinds down, working her weight down on him, cutting off a bit of his air. He basks in it, her power, his lack of choice. He consciously submits a little further, settles into the haze at her center for her to use as she pleases. As Maria starts talking again, his arousal fades a bit more into the background.

“You like that, baby, huh? Being so fucking good for me, I knew you could be a good boy.” She gathers his wrists in one hand and he lets her, fully aware that he could break free if he wanted. It’s too good to resist when she straightens her back to settle more of her weight on him, reaches down to card a hand through his hair. She starts really riding his face, and he keeps his tongue firm and lapping; all he can do. All he needs to do. She’s coming so soon, panting and body shaking and moaning his name with some other endearments thrown in, _Oh sweet Jesus_ and _Fuck yeah, honey, make that happen._

He licks her through the orgasm, knowing it’s expected of him. She comes down still holding tightly to his head. “So pretty,” she says, fairly dreamily, finally loosening her grip and stroking his hair, looking down at him with a smile that’s less of a leer than before - closed-mouthed, eyes game. In the haze she lays back against his torso, her head resting on his thigh, and her long hair brushes against his balls and he moans, loud and woeful, as he’s rocketed back to _that,_ his erection not having flagged in the slightest in the time it hasn’t been paid any attention.

“Oh, no, honey, none of that,” she says, stretching back, lazily stroking his shin. “You go home and think about what you learned today, do your homework, and come back tomorrow and we’ll talk about it.”

Eventually she helps him up, back into the real world, and he does. She lets him relax, brings him ice water, and he gets his trousers back on and his hair slicked back into a not-entirely-gross ponytail and he uses the bathroom, splashes water on his face and studies himself in the mirror. He looks pretty normal. Looks like a guy who got out of work late, bags under his eyes and old ratty messenger bag tossed over his shoulder. Nine-to-fiver, ambitious but tired. Definitely takes the bus and bikes on weekends.

His legs are unsteady as he leaves but he quickly regains his footing. These streets are his, and he walks home because he knows the way, stops at a bodega to get Eliza a bouquet of carnations. Her _Caribbean flower,_ she calls him sometimes. He hopes it’ll endear him to her, that she’ll let him take her to bed and apologize. It’s all he knows how to do, the best tool in his arsenal besides his words, and he has a lot of lost time to make up for.


End file.
